I hated it. David Lipton had purposefully stepped on my G.I. Joe lunchbox and stomped it until it oozed peanut butter and jelly. My teacher looked like the Church Lady. "Fine," I said.

The phone rang so The Creep yelled, "I'll get it! It's for me!" and ran from the room. She was spared the inquisition about school. I was sure that she had asked her friend to call her when she got home, for the sole purpose of avoiding interrogation. Teenagers were lucky like that. They always had excuses to be rude.

Dad strode into our house with a grin on his face, yelling, "Honey! I'm home early and--" His eyes fell upon Lydia and Ray. The grin slid off of his face and, in an instant, a new one appeared. It was the same grin he put on when my cousin Todd bit him on the ankle. "Hello Lydia, Ray." Dad noticed Mom admiring my present. "That's an interesting color."

"It's puce," Mom informed him.

"Sure is," Dad agreed, giving me a knowing glance. In the back of his closet were a watercolor painting of a pigsty, a souvenir Indian headdress from Lydia's trip west, and a silver-beaded handmade whatchamacallit that looked like it could have been either a Christmas tree ornament, a bracelet, or a bathing suit top. All of which were gifts compliments of my aunt and uncle.

Dinner wasn't much better. There was toxic waste on my plate. It sat there, stagnant and brownish-purple-punk, staring at me. I stared back. It was eating through Mom's fine china.

I was sure Mom would be greatly upset about that, since we never touched the good china unless our relatives came. I didn't dare take my eyes off my meal; at any moment, it might decide to crawl off of the plate, and I wanted to be prepared.

If the toxic waste were consumed, it would surely eat through my guts. Mom plunked down three little golf balls into the blob on my plat, and The Blob encompassed and devoured the golf balls in an instant.

Oh, that's what that was! "I do?" I queried, keeping a watchful eye on The Blob.

"You do." Mom's eyes burned a hole through my brain. It was a form of mind control. Her will traveled directly into my thoughts and became embedded there. That same force made me pick up my fork and attempt to shovel up some of The Blob. The Blob growled at me. My love of life overcame my mother's power, and I put down my fork.

I looked over at The Creep to see how she was faring. She was staring at her dish, too, and I noted that her hand was reaching for her fourth piece of bread. "Gee, Brenda, why aren't you eating? I thought you loved creamed tuna on toast!" I said.

Attention focused on her. She glared at me. "Oh, I do! I do! It's just that I'm not feeling very well. My stomach hurts."

"Couldn't hurt too much. You've had four pieces of bread." I had temporarily evened the score.

The rest of my relatives' visit went on in much of the same manner. We opened up our belated Christmas presents. I got a pair of puce plaid knickers to go with my shirt and tie. The Creep and Mom agreed that I would wear the whole ensemble to school the next day. The Creep had her revenge. I don't want to talk about it. I also received a record album of Shaun Cassidy's Greatest Hits.

I unearthed one of my high school's literary magazines from way back in 1989, and realized I had apparently been writing humor-- or at least what passed for it among my peers-- for a very, very long time.

This story appeared in that magazine as it appears now. While it certainly presses the boundaries of the word "literary," I thought you folks might get a kick out of seeing my 17-year-old self's fledgling attempt at humor story-telling. I've broken this into two parts because it's a bit long for one post.

____________________________________

"Do you remember me?" asked Aunt Lydia with a broad, toothy smile Crazy Glued to her face. "The last time I saw you, you were one month old."

"No," I mumbled. "I don't remember back that far. That was seven years ago."

A plump hand the size of a catcher's mitt reached toward me and repeatedly wrenched the side of my face. "Oh, you are just soooo cute, Robby! Where did you get those dimples?"

"I don't know," I said, but thought they were probably due to so many of my relatives tweaking my cheeks.

And then it happened. Uncle Ray posed the one question I dreaded to hear. "And what do you want to be when you grow up, li'l feller?"

"I don't know," I repeated. I knew I couldn't tell them what I really wanted to be. They'd just smile and laugh like they always did and tell me, "Looks like ya got big plans, Son."

I was serious. I wanted to be a doctor so I could save people's lives. I want to be a cowboy so I could get to ride a horse. I wanted to be an astronaut so I could walk in space. I wanted to be a great movie star like Pee-Wee Herman and have my own Saturday morning TV show. Most of all, I wanted to be old enough so people wouldn't ask me such stupid things.

It was bad enough that my relatives had come to visit for a few days, but there was a boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. It was squeezing tighter... tighter.... tighter... and I pulled at it, attempting to pry it from my throat. That made the serpent angry, and the angrier the boa constrictor became, the less I was able to breathe. I gasped for air.

"Leave your tie on," said Mom. "You look nice, Dear."

"I don't want to look nice, Mom. Uncle Ray and Aunt Lydia are here. Can I take this off now?"

"No. Wait until your father comes home." She adjusted the boa constrictor. I gasped again. "And stop making those disgusting wheezing noises, Robby! One would think you were choking to death."

Birthday present? I knew what it was! My heart soared. Things were looking up. It was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Slimeblaster that Santa forgot to bring me for Christmas. He didn't bring it because he knew Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray had gotten it for me. Good old Santa! I knew he wouldn't let me down!

A box! Aunt Lydia handed me a box! I could hardly wait. The ribbons, card, and paper were quickly shredded and tossed onto the floor. I mean, I shredded that giftwrap faster than Ollie North ever could have. I moved the box's lid to reveal...

"It's a lovely shirt and tie, isn't it, Robby?" asked Mom.

"Yeah," I said.

Mom turned and smiled at Aunt Lydia who was sitting on the couch, causing it to groan and beg for mercy. There was no room for Uncle Ray; he sat on a chair. "Robby looks so nice in puce, too," commented Mom as she eyed my birthday present. "And what do you say to Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray, Robby?"

What could I say? It's ugly? I hate it? Exactly what is "puce"? "Thank you, Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray," I said.

My 16-year-old sister slammed the front door with the usual amount of force to announce her return from high school. She entered the living room and plunked down her books. "Hi, Aunt Lydia! Hello, Uncle Ray!"

With some difficulty, my aunt rose from our sofa. It sighed the biggest sigh of relief. Aunt Lydia's body enveloped my sister in a hug. I laughed. My sister peered over Lydia's shoulder and gave me a dirty look.

"Look what Aunt Lydia gave Robby for his birthday, Brenda!" said Mom, holding up the present that was not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Slimeblaster.

"Oh yeah! That's a real cool outfit!" She eyed me maliciously. "Exactly what would you call that color?"

"I believe it's puce, Brenda," replied Mom.

"Awesome shade! And Robby just looks soooo good in it! Why don't you wear it to school tomorrow, Robby?" My sister was a creep.

"Good idea," agreed Mom.

"And those orange polka dots on the tie really enhance the brilliance of those fluorescent green stripes in the shirt, don't you think, Robby?" asked The Creep.

"Guess so," I said.

"I'm so glad you like it." Aunt Lydia smiled again. She smiled more than Jimmy Carter...

Did you get a chance to play "Guess That Christmas Song" in yesterday's post? No???? Well, we all know you're just killing time until you can go warm those feet by an open fire, pour yourself a cup o' the nog and let the festivities begin. I mean, it's not like you're doing actual real work right now or anything, are you?

Hi, and welcome to "Guess That Christmas Song"-- the holiday game show entirely without prizes, where we describe one of the season's beloved and most overplayed Christmas tunes and you guess the title!

Answers will be given in tomorrow's exciting post. It's fun for the whole family!

And the article goes on to discuss how ol' Hank had lost his head in the confusion of the French Revolution-- like, way literally-- and how the cast from the French version of Bones was called to identify him, in an exciting Sweeps Week two-parter. (Spoiler: he's not Gormagon.)

But what the Reuters article neglected to say is just where this decapitated head was all this time. And that really bugged me because I was sure I saw someone Tweet that it was found in...

So I'm guessing this French retiree's garage-- where the dead French dude's mummified noggin was stashed since the 1950s-- must be a lot like my family's place growing up. I mean, we weren't quite ready to star in an episode of Hoarders, but we did manage to retain some pretty weird crap.

Honestly, does the average homeowner really need a tarantula in a formaldehyde-filled jar? Or 300 Victorian doorknobs? Or a full-sized Early American spinning wheel? Or a pickled eel?

I mean, really, how many times doyou find yourself wishing, "Oh, if only I had a pickled eel handy! Drat it, now I'm going to have to figure out where I put that canned lamprey I was saving for Christmas."

Tim Burton could be my cool, normal uncle or something.

So I can see it now... France 2010...

Back behind the box of rat-eaten medieval mille-fleurs tapestries, past the rusted-out bicycle, the spider-infested baguette boxes, and the Jerry Lewis VHS tapes, there the solo-flying head of King Charlie Four has been quietly hanging out amusing himself for half a century. Playing "I-Spy" and "King of the Mountain" and whatnot.

So one day, the retiree's wife gets sick of the fact that the only thing that currently isn't stored in the garage is the Renault.

And she announces, "We are going to have a garage sale and get rid of some of this junk." Only she says it in French, so it sounds a lot classier.

"Wee air go-wing to ave a gawage sell, and geet reed of some of zis jjjunque..."

(See that-- four-and-a-half years of French really paid off.)

And so out come the mille-fleurs tapestries... ("Aren't zees Belgian?")

And the rusted-out bicycle... ("Movie prop from Amelie... We weell sell eet on ze EBay...")

And pretty soon, the wife shrieks:

"Mon cher, you weell not beeleeve what Ah jjooost found!"

"Eez eet beegger zan a baguette box?"

"Oui."

So, soon Saturday morning comes, the garage sale is on, and folks are looking for a bargain.

Now see here, Facebook-- how can I convince you that I do not want to know?

Offline, I close my ears and childishly "la-la-la" to myself over possibly-dangerous watercooler talk.

I tell my friends "Talk to the Hand" when they start with the hearty, "Hey, did you see last night's ep--"

And I warn these good-hearted folks that mine is a No Spoiler Zone, particularly when it comes to Netflixable shows like Dexter, which I like to wait for, and savor, commercial-free.

Mother Facebook, however, has other ideas about what is good for me.

See, I had made the mistake of "Liking" Dexter on my Facebook profile. And now Mother Facebook is all up in my face, like that new agey parent who just really, really wants to be your very bestest friend and feels the most effective way to do that is by intruding all over your personal interests.

In this case, she's determined to dish the latest on Dex. She does not care that I have been trying to avoid all details of Season 5 like medieval peasants would circumnavigate a popular plague-era rat networking convention.

No, instead Mother Facebook reacts to this by flinging tidbits of info at me into the stream of my otherwise-innocuous Facebook updates. I find I'm starting to flinch every time I see Michael C. Hall's smirking mug.

It's like Mother Facebook is that gossipy old neighbor who takes great evil pleasure in "accidentally" letting you know she saw your husband slip across the yard to that desperate soccer mom's back porch.

So it looks like I'm going to have to "Unlike" Dexter, simply to release myself from this net of unwanted joy-crushing Facebookly media spoilage. All I can think is, it's a good thing Facebook wasn't around when The Sixth Sense and The Crying Game were out.

"Find Out How Bruce Willis Felt Playing a Ghost!"

"Read all about how Crying Game Actor Prepped for Transgendered Role!"

I've been running fast on deadlines this week-- seems it's hard to find the funny when you're buried under the weight of two tons of Excel spreadsheets-- but I didn't want to leave my dear Cabbages readers empty-handed and completely Cabbage-free.

So I thought-- if you haven't gotten a chance to see it, or if you haven't seen it in a while-- you all might enjoy this peek at the Death Star Cafeteria, courtesy of comedian Eddie Izzard, and a kid who is very clever with his Legos but also has a whole lot of time on his hands.

Over the years, I've learned a lot from the Muppets. And no, I'm not just talking about piddly little things like... y'know... spelling, numbers, colors, or Gilbert and Sullivan show tunes as sung by giant cucumbers.

No, I'm talking about the really useful stuff!

There is currently no 12-step program for cookie addiction. And self-regulating cookie addicts fall off the wagon hard.

You really can put lipstick on a pig-- though they prefer to play up the eyes.

If you don't like one of your facial features, swap with a friend. This is the trick your plastic surgeon doesn't want you to know.

Speaking the local language is no prerequisite for having a successful career in the chemical sciences or television cookery industries.

Prop comics from the Vaudevillian school can be bearable in the right medium.

City pigeons make great pets, though with improper handling they can cause jaundice.

"Mnah-Mnah" are magic words that can make even the most tone-deaf person sing.

Throwing an effective boomerang fish requires a very smooth snap of the wrist. Also, probably, thumbs.

Nepotism is even found in the frog species, particularly in show business.

Never hire a demolition company whose founder's legal first name is "Crazy."

And lastly:

When playing a reed based woodwind instrument, it is always prudent to be rubber-duck-free....

Step Right In, and Welcome!

Welcome to Of Cabbages and Kings, the blog of author, Jenn Thorson. Here you'll find updates on the There Goes the Galaxy humorous sci-fi bookseries and other writing projects. Also expect to see musings on pop culture, grammar nerdism, literary nose-tweaking, a few feisty aliens, all united for gleeful, eccentric fun.

Come, savor the Cabbage-- for it is funny, fresh and unexpectedly tasty!

About Yours Truly

Greetings, good people! I am a MacGyver-er of words, drinker of caffeines and sitter at desks. I currently have a humorous sci-fi trilogy out called There Goes the Galaxy. (The books are called There Goes the Galaxy (book 1) and The Purloined Number (book 2) and Tryfling Matters. If you're curious about that, I hope you'll pop by my website at: www.jennthorson.com

If You Enjoy This Blog

You might also enjoy my humorous space fantasy novels, There Goes the Galaxy andThe Purloined Number (There Goes the Galaxy #2), both available in paperback and ebook forms. Click here to learn more about them on my book website: www.jennthorson.com